


exile

by maiselocked



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Songfic, just sad, no fluff really, what could've happened after the fleabag ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiselocked/pseuds/maiselocked
Summary: in which fleabag and priest see each other after the bus stop situation.
Relationships: Fleabag & Priest (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	exile

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of exile by taylor swift ft. bon iver!! i really recommend listening to this song!!

_I can see you standin', honey_   
_With his arms around your body_   
_Laughin' but the joke's not funny at all_   
_And it took you five whole minutes_   
_To pack us up and leave me with it_   
_Holdin' all this love out here in the hall_

He struggled to put on his priestly outfit that morning. He was feeling rather sluggish and depressed. Bottles and cans littered his floor. His hair was mussed up from sleep and he made no attempt to fix it. A few days ago, he was offered the chance to move to another parish but declined solemnly. 

He didn’t want to leave London, honestly. He had made a small home for himself there and enjoyed the community. Not to mention those awful, horrible, nagging feelings that were constantly at the pit of his stomach that just maybe he should go see her. If he moved away, he would lose the ability to go see her if he so chose. He knew she probably wouldn’t want to see him but he missed her face, her lips, her sarcasm, her wittiness, her bluntness. 

Eventually, he made his way to his spot at the front of the church, prepared to begin Sunday service. He put on the normal mask he always did but it faltered when his eyes scanned through the crowd. 

There were six extra people in the third pew. Fleabag’s father, her god/stepmother, Claire, Klare, some man he didn’t recognize, and Fleabag who was holding onto the arm of the man he didn’t know. It felt like fresh cuts and wounds were opening. Fuck. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling this weird sense of jealousy or of betrayal. He’s the one who uttered the words “it’ll pass” but did he not also claim his love for Fleabag too? 

Perhaps he should be happy for her. He put a smile back on his face and waved at the family. Fleabag’s god/stepmother waved gingerly and forced Fleabag’s father to do the same. Claire gave a nod of recognition. He looked to Fleabag expectantly only to see her laughing at something the man next to her said. 

He looked away and down at the book in front of him. With a shuddering breath, he started the service, welcoming everyone. His voice floated to her ears and her heart rate picked up. The man next to her meant nothing to her. It was a fling that had been going for two days. He wasn’t even funny. But she laughed anyway. She didn’t know why. 

She looked up at him just as he turned away. She sighed. She should’ve made up some stupid excuse so she wouldn’t have to be in front of him. It fucking sucked. 

_I think I've seen this film before_   
_And I didn't like the ending_   
_You're not my homeland anymore_   
_So what am I defendin' now?_   
_You were my town_   
_Now I'm in exile seein' you out_   
_I think I've seen this film before_

The one thing that never went away was the comfort she felt around him. Her family + Klare and unnamed man were standing a few feet away from him. God/stepmother insisted on saying hi and exchanging niceties. It was absolute bullshit that he was one of the only people who made her feel this way. And he was a fucking _priest_. What the fuck? 

“Oh, hello!” He said when he turned around. God/stepmother pulled him in for a short hug. “So nice to see you again.” 

“Nice to see you too,” her father said, shaking his hand. 

“We thought it’d be nice for us to come to service every once in a while. And I wanted to invite you to an art showing of mine happening next weekend!” God/stepmother pulled a ticket out of her purse and handed it to him. 

“I will certainly check my schedule,” he pocketed the ticket. “Thank you for the invite. I hope you’re all doing well.” 

For the first time that day, they made eye contact. He gave a polite smile and held out his hand as an invite for her to shake. She took it and put on a smile. 

“Good to see you again,” he said. 

“You too,” she responded, feeling at a loss for words. Unnamed man held out his hand, too oblivious to notice the weird tension. 

“Hi, I’m Terry,” he said. Terry wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. 

“Good to meet you, Terry. Nice to see you Claire and…,” he looked to the blonde man holding onto Claire’s hand. 

“Oh, Klare!” 

God/stepmother talked with him for a few minutes before finally deciding to leave and get back home for lunch. He waved goodbye to the family. They all began to walk towards the exit but she felt the urge to look back at him. He was watching her walk away and when their eyes met, he didn’t do anything but stare until they couldn’t. 

_I can see you starin', honey_   
_Like he's just your understudy_   
_Like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me_   
_Second, third, and hundredth chances_   
_Balancin' on breaking branches_   
_Those eyes add insult to injury_

“Here, carry the champagne. I’ll take the hors d’oeuvres,” Claire said, thrusting the bottle of champagne into her hands. 

The new exhibition god/stepmother had was just as phallic and somewhat disturbing as the last one. Thankfully there wasn’t a wall of penises. No, it was now a wall of boobs. With a busy, foggy head, she made her way around, filling up champagne glasses for anyone who wanted it. It wasn’t even seven minutes before she ran out and needed to go back to the fridge and get another bottle. 

She pushed open a door and came face to face with the priest. Her lips parted and her eyes widened a small fraction. 

“Oh, hi. Sorry. I was looking for the bathroom,” he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

“It’s down the hall to the right,” she told him. Their shoulders and hips brushed past each other when she moved to the fridge. 

“You look well,” he told her. She turned around with the new bottle of champagne in her hand.

“Weren’t you going to go to the bathroom?” 

“Um, uh, yeah. Going right now.” 

He made it to the door before she stopped him. “Wait.” He turned around and faced her with waiting eyes. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” 

They said nothing more and both walked out of the room they were in. He went down the hall and to the right en route to the bathroom and she went back into the exhibition. 

_I think I've seen this film before_   
_And I didn't like the ending_   
_I'm not your problem anymore_   
_So who am I offending now?_   
_You were my crown_   
_Now I'm in exile seein' you out_   
_I think I've seen this film before_   
_So I'm leavin' out the side door_

God/stepmother stood in front of the crowd of those unfortunate enough to have been roped into witnessing this exhibition. She was giving some kind of speech about the freedom and fluidity of sex or whatever. 

Fleabag was standing in the back of the room, two full glasses of champagne down and one half finished. Her arm was resting on a pedestal that had a cement penis sitting on top of it. She paid no mind to the scene around her. 

“You’re about to knock that dick off,” said a voice from behind her. She whipped her head around and saw him laughing quietly. 

“I wonder who it’s based on,” she said, eyeing the shape. 

“Me.” 

She looked at him with something that resembled a horrified expression. “Are you kidding?” 

“Yes. Yes, I am kidding.” 

She breathed out a sigh of relief that he laughed at. They stood there in silence for a while. She chugged the rest of her champagne down and sat it on the marble pedestal with a loud clink. God/stepmother eyed her from where she stood at the front of the exhibition. 

“I meant it, ya know,” she whispered so quietly that he wasn’t even sure that he heard her correctly. “That I miss you.” 

“I meant it too.” 

They shared a meaningful look - one with a longing in their eyes, words on their tongue that would be left unsaid, and raised eyebrows awaiting the time the other spoke. He knew what he was about to would be incredibly stupid but he couldn’t help it. 

“Do you want to get out of here? Go for a walk, maybe?” He asked. 

She looked up to her god/stepmother who was going off on a tangent about when she lost her virginity and then looked back at him. “Yeah.” She pushed her bag up her shoulder and the two disappeared out the door and down into the streets of London. It was a cold afternoon and she pulled her jacket close around her body. 

They walked in silence for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable but there was something there that didn’t let either of them completely relax and let loose. They must’ve been walking for a while because eventually, they came onto the same bus stop from that fateful night. A somber feeling came over her and when they passed by it, she looked back at it with stinging eyes. 

_So step right out_   
_There is no amount_   
_Of cryin' I can do for you_

_All this time_   
_We always walked a very thin line_   
_You didn't even hear me out (You didn't even hear me out)_   
_You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)_

They fell into an easy conversation about their lives. She told him about Hillary’s newfound pickiness about the cucumbers she eats and that they have to be cut up a certain way or Hillary will not eat them. He told her about a run-in with a fox one late night after a service and that he threw a cross at it in hopes of scaring it away when it only followed him the whole way home. That made her laugh a lot. 

He made a bold move and asked her about Terry. She told him that he was an arrogant prick and had only invited him out with her family to distract her. When he asked her what she needed distracting from, she responded with “you”. 

It was quiet once again. 

They soon realized that they had come onto Fleabag’s house out of complete accident. They stood outside the house for a minute before she looked at him. 

“D’you want to come in?” She asked, somewhat hoping that he’d say no. 

“It’s getting late. Pam’s probably worried out of her mind.”

“Yeah. That’s okay.” 

She opened the gate and went up the stairs and fished out her keys. He stood there watching her. She looked back at him when she opened the door. “I love you,” she said. 

He drew a breath in and looked down at his shoes like they were the most interesting things ever. For the second time that day, he did something that he probably shouldn’t have done but he couldn’t stop himself from tearing the gate open, racing up the stairs, and pulling her in for a deep kiss. 

_All this time_   
_I never learned to read your mind (Never learned to read my mind)_   
_I couldn't turn things around (You never turned things around)_   
_'Cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs)_   
_So many signs_   
_So many signs (You didn't even see the signs)_

It was heated for a few minutes and they only took one break to breath. It was full of desperation. Her arms were locked around his neck and his hands were pressed to her cheeks. When they pulled away, she rested her forehead on his. Both were panting. 

He stepped away first and she swore she saw tears in his eyes. “I love you too.” 

He wiped the lipstick off of his mouth, adjusted his shirt and fixed his hair and left. Fleabag watched from her door as he went down the steps, down the street, and finally took a turn. She knew she should let him go. 

It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. 

But she went inside of her house and shut the door. It was then that she made a promise to herself that she’d let him go. She’d be okay. It took a few drinks to do that. 

The priest returned home and drank away the night inside of his room. Before he became incredibly plastered though, he called and asked to move to another parish. By next week, he’d be in Rome and he might never see Fleabag again. Tears came to his eyes for the first time in ages. 

“I love you,” was the last thing he whispered to himself when he passed out, still in jeans and a sweater. “I love you.” 

_I think I've seen this film before_   
_And I didn't like the ending_   
_You're not my homeland anymore_   
_So what am I defending now?_   
_You were my town_   
_Now I'm in exile seein' you out_   
_I think I've seen this film before_   
_So I'm leaving out the side door_


End file.
